


like it's the only thing i'll ever do

by bazzystar



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Curses, Dubious Consent, First Time, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Past Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, dubcon is Not geraskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25134130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bazzystar/pseuds/bazzystar
Summary: “You must confess to your witcher,” the elf says. “Until you do, you will not speak nor sing nor whisper sweet nothings into the ears of those you bed to distract you.”“You think he will leave you,” he says. “You are probably right, if what they say about witchers is true. I can’t imagine he’ll take kindly to knowing what you feel for him.”“So, bard. Witcher bard. This is the poison barb in your flesh: you can stay with him in silence and give up the one thing that makes you useful to him, or you can confess and give up something you will never have anyway.”Jaskier upsets the wrong one-night stand and loses his voice. The only way to get it back is to tell Geralt how he feels.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 110
Kudos: 1500
Collections: The Witcher





	1. i'm sorry every song's about you

“Fuck!”

Jaskier slams out of the tavern. He stomps a few feet away, aims a particularly vicious kick at a clump of weeds, misses, and falls on his ass. He lies there for a moment, stewing, and then throws an arm over his face. “Fucking Valdo _fucking_ Marx,” he snarls.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier moves his arm, looks up to see Geralt looming over him. “Did you bring my drink?” he asks.

“The bottle broke when you threw it,” Geralt says. “They do that.”

Jaskier sits up. “Did you bring a new one?”

“Think you’ve had enough,” Geralt says.

“Oh, that’s _very_ nice. Take their side.” Jaskier starts getting to his feet. “Hang on. Why do you have all our things? Why do you have _Roach?_ Geralt—”

“They’ve canceled your performance tonight,” Geralt says, his voice a low rumble. “And payment for such, which means…”

“No room,” Jaskier finishes. “Fuck!”

Geralt shrugs. “You know I don’t mind sleeping in the woods.”

“You don’t _sleep_ ,” Jaskier grumbles. “Can we not try another inn?”

Geralt shakes his head. “Not me. I’ve had my fill of crowds for the evening.”

“Well… well!” Jaskier sputters. “I—I’m sorry, Geralt, I just got so _upset_ —”

“Why?”

Jaskier gapes at him. “Were you not listening to the same song as I was?”

“Seemed fine.”

“It’s _about me_ ,” Jaskier hisses. “About—us. Me and Marx.”

He’s aware he probably shouldn’t be telling Geralt this. They don’t really discuss their sexual escapades, outside of Jaskier making fun of Yennefer’s outfits, and he’s not sure if Geralt knows he likes men, or how he would feel about it, or—

“So you’re the little dandelion?” Geralt’s voice carries the hint of a smile, but his face is impassive as ever.

“Fuck you,” Jaskier says.

“All your songs are about me,” Geralt says mildly.

“That’s different! I—” Jaskier stops before he can say _I adore you_. “I… I didn’t _deflower_ you.”

“Marx—?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jaskier says, and turns in a circle as he tries to figure out where he can stalk off to.

“Think that’s the first time you’ve ever said those words.”

“Oh you utter prick,” Jaskier says. “Here I am, revealing a decades-old source of pain, and you—you—”

His flailing hand smacks into Geralt’s breastplate, sending a shock of pain up his arm. He sucks in a sharp breath. “Go sleep in the woods,” he snaps. “I’m going to get drunk.”

“You’re already drunk.” Geralt takes his hand, rolls his wrist to make sure nothing’s damaged. Jaskier wants to slap him.

“Well, I’m going to get drunker,” he says, yanking his hand away. “Enjoy the woods. Roach, I’m sorry you won’t get to sleep in a stable tonight, my darling.”

The horse nuzzles him.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says, and strides away before Geralt can say anything else.

“Fucking Valdo,” he mutters as he walks through the city. “Fucking… fucking… _ass._ Bad-at-writing _ass_. Bad songs. It’s not even a good song. ‘I’m forever haunted by our time,’ oh, _that’s_ rich, that’s absolutely—”

He slams into someone very tall’s very broad back.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he says, backing away, holding up his hands. “Bit drunk, not looking—”

The man turns around, and _oh_.

“Look at you,” Jaskier says. “Goodness.”

He smiles. “Hello,” he says. “That’s quite a greeting.”

“Apologies,” Jaskier says quickly. “I—I’m just—”

He casts about for an excuse, but all he can hear is Geralt saying _he was kicked by a horse as a child_ and that unfortunately doesn’t apply here unless it kicked him in the head, and—

“Would you like another drink?”

Jaskier looks up. The man is still smiling. “Well, I—yes,” Jaskier says. “Yes, I would.”

\--

It’s not his fault.

It’s not.

He’s just too good at doing the exact wrong thing at the exact wrong time. He’s just an idiot, really, and he shouldn’t be blamed. Blame Colm (he thinks his name is Colm) for buying him Evreluce (he thinks it was Evreluce), blame the tavern for selling fuck-off strong spirits, blame Marx, blame stupid sexy Geralt, blame destiny, whatever.

It’s not his fault.

He’s too drunk, and he’s exhausted and he’s still upset, and he’s just asleep enough to be almost having a dream, and maybe-Colm’s hair falls across his face and his stubble scratches across Jaskier’s cheek and he sighs and says _Geralt_ , nothing more, nothing less, doesn't even realize he's done it, and maybe-Colm doesn’t even acknowledge it.

Until they’re done.

He rolls over, tracing his fingertips lightly down Jaskier’s throat.

“So,” he says. “You’re in love with your witcher.”

“Wha—” Jaskier tries to sit up, but the hand at his neck won’t let him. “I am not,” he says.

“All your songs are about him,” Colm says.

“Of course they are, because we’re _friends_ , and those songs make _money—_ ”

“You said his name while you fucked me,” Colm says.

Jaskier freezes.

“Ah,” he says. “Well. There’s maybe some unresolved sexual attraction there but it’s hardly—”

Is it him, or are the fingers on his throat heating to an uncomfortable degree? He puts his hand up to dislodge Colm’s but the other man tightens his grip.

“Well!” he says. “What do you want me to say? Did you expect we were going to—I didn’t mean to offend you, but Melitele’s _tits_ , I still gave you a good time, didn’t I?”

Colm tilts his head and his hair shifts, and Jaskier sees the tip of an ear.

The pointy tip of a pointy ear.

“Oh bollocks,” he says.

“Oh bollocks indeed,” says the elf.

“Look, I’m—I’m sorry,” Jaskier says desperately. “I’ll—what do you want, I’ll—”

The fingers on his neck go so hot he glances down to see if he’s on fire, and then they’re gone.

The elf shakes out his hand. “Because, as you said, you gave me a good time, I’m inclined to leniency,” he says. “Your punishment will only be as bad as you allow.”

Jaskier says, “What do you mean?”

Or rather, he tries to say it, and nothing comes out.

He tries again. Still nothing. He looks at the elf with panic.

“You can have your voice back whenever you wish,” the elf says. “There is only one condition.”

Jaskier nods frantically, gestures for him to keep talking.

“You must confess to your witcher,” the elf says. “Until you do, you will not speak nor sing nor whisper sweet nothings into the ears of those you bed to distract you.”

He smiles cruelly at the expression on Jaskier’s face.

“You think he will leave you,” he says. “You are probably right, if what they say about witchers is true. I can’t imagine he’ll take kindly to knowing what you feel for him.”

Jaskier blinks back tears of rage and frustration as he climbs out of the bed and fumbles for his clothes.

“So, bard. _Witcher_ bard. This is the poison barb in your flesh: you can stay with him in silence and give up the one thing that makes you useful to him, or you can confess and give up something you will never have anyway.”

Jaskier swings at him. The elf ducks and then hammers his fist into Jaskier’s stomach. He drops to the floor, wheezing silently.

“Now, now,” the elf chides. “Don’t make me make it worse.”

\--

“Oi!”

Geralt doesn’t turn around.

“Oi, _witcher!_ ”

He stops walking and waits. It takes another few seconds for the owner of the voice to catch up.

Valdo Marx.

“Gods, you walk fast,” the man says with a grin. “You left early—did you not care for the performance?”

“My bard didn’t,” Geralt says.

“Ah, yes, your _bard_. Jaskier, isn’t it?”

“He told me about you,” Geralt says, impatient now. He can smell the cool quiet of the forest, and he’s tired. “About the two of you.”

“ _Did_ he?” Marx’s face curls into a sly smile. “Tell me, then. Did you like the song?”

“Bit upbeat for my taste.”

“You’re not angry that I upset _your bard?”_

The emphasis is slight, but Geralt hears it. He flexes his fingers idly. “He’ll recover.”

“I don’t know if he will,” Marx says thoughtfully. “I was his great love, you know.”

Something twinges in Geralt’s chest. “I doubt that.”

“You should hear the songs he wrote about me,” Marx says, keeping pace as Geralt starts walking again. “Filthy things. Almost as filthy as the ones he sang in bed.”

Geralt puts out a hand, stopping them both. “What do you want?” he growls.

Marx blinks at him, the picture of innocence. “Are you sure you’re not angry?”

“I’m becoming angry.”

“Fond of the little dandelion, are you?”

“Why do you call him that, anyway?”

“Soft, bright, cheerful,” Marx says, boredom in his tone. “Nuisance, easily crushed underfoot, waste of space—”

Geralt hits him.

Marx collapses back onto the ground, blood already streaming from both nostrils. “I knew it,” he hisses, bringing a hand to his face. “The witcher loves the little idiot. Does he know?”

Geralt stares down at him, wiping the blood off his knuckles.

“No, of course not,” Marx breathes, a glint of satisfaction coming into his eye. “He’d be terrified. He’s a whore, but he’s not a monster-fucker.”

Geralt sets his jaw and turns away, pulling Roach with him.

“See you in the next town, witcher,” Marx calls after him. “Maybe I’ll write a little ballad for the two of you.”

Geralt flicks a burst of fire back toward the bard without turning around. The ensuing shrieks bring the tiniest of smiles to his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *my apologies for not tagging dubcon. it was not my intent but i recognize it reads that way. thank you to those of you who mentioned it*
> 
> truly it took everything in my power not to call this fic 'throw a bone in your witcher'. actual title is from 'adore you' by harry styles, who wears outfits jaskier would simply die for. the song that valdo is singing is loosely based on the ABSOLUTE BOP "julien" by carly rae jepsen, but he doesn't deserve to have written something that good. comments are encouraged.


	2. you don't have to say you love me / i just wanna tell you something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings, but only internally, because idiots.

Once he had thought he could be a hero. 

Not for fame, or money, or anything like that. Just to help people, and to know that he’d helped them. He had thought his life could make a difference.

The first person he’d helped had quickly disabused him of that notion. He’d saved her from rapists and she’d looked at him as if he were about to pick up where they’d left off. _Screamed_ when he got near her to offer her some water. 

Then he knew better. He wasn’t a hero, would never be one, and the best he could hope for was that the people he saved would let him walk among them in relative peace. He was a monster, made tolerable only because he killed other, worse monsters, and that was to be the sum of his existence.

Jaskier… Jaskier didn’t agree. He’d sat down across from him in Posada and talked to him like he wasn’t afraid, and he wasn’t. He’d never been. And Geralt—weak, lonely Geralt—couldn’t let him go.

The bard drove him mad, there was no question about it. But somewhere along the line, somewhere during their time on the Path, he’d become… necessary. At first it was just the novelty of someone who didn’t see him as a freak of nature, something to be feared and tolerated, but now… now it was _more_.

Geralt _wants_ more, and he knows he can’t have it. 

Marx’s words echo in his head as he slings their bedrolls to the ground and kicks one open.

_He’s not a monster-fucker._

Because the only person who would fuck a witcher—just _fuck_ , never mind _care for—_ would have to be willing to bed a beast. There were those he’d paid for their services who were aroused by the idea, but even they still feared him. They begged him to be rough, relished his abnormal size and stamina, but he knew there was always someone on the other side of the door waiting to rescue them if they needed. No one gave themselves to a witcher. 

He realizes the bedroll sprawled open isn’t his, and he’s reaching to roll it back up when he sees one of Jaskier’s little notebooks. He carries at least three with him, tucked in various pockets of those ridiculous clothes, in case he has an idea that can’t wait. This one has fallen open.

_Just close it. Just close it and put it away._

Geralt crouches next to the book.

 _Don’t look at it. Don’t betray him like that. Never mind that he sings you every goddamn snippet of every goddamn song he’s ever written. It’s his_ choice _. Don’t—_

He picks it up.

Jaskier’s handwriting is neat, without the flourishes he’d expect from a nobleman. It slants to the right slightly, getting larger and looser when he’s in the grip of an idea, smaller when he’s more composed. 

_I’d walk through fire for you / just let me adore you_

He turns a page, and then another.

_You’ve been on your own for long enough / maybe I can show you how to love, maybe_

~~_I can’t see clearly when you’re gone_ ~~

~~_I can’t sleep until I feel your touch_ ~~

_When I’m like this, you’re the one I trust_

He sets the book down. 

_Maybe he_ is _still in love with Marx_ , he thinks. Maybe the arrogant bard was right. It hurts to imagine Jaskier pining after someone like that. He deserves better. He should know he deserves better.

_I don’t know why I hide from the one / close my eyes to the one / mess up and drive away the one that I love_

_If only I could cry to the one / always confide in the one / could just be kind to the one that I love_

He wants to hurt something.

He closes his eyes and casts his senses out, out beyond the clearing, out into the woods and the wilderness. There’s an endrega hive not too far from him. He downs a vial of Tawny Owl and pats Roach’s nose.

“There’s no reason to put you in danger,” he says to the horse. She stamps one foot.

“I’ll be back before you know it. Eat some grass.”

He sets off through the forest at a dead sprint.

\--

Jaskier has spent the night panicking, pacing the streets of the city and trying to indicate through gestures to mostly-drunk strangers that he needs to find a mage. One person asked if he was looking for explosives, and her companion said, “No, Sabrin, he’s clearly looking for a haberdasher,” and the two of them stumbled gaily away without a backward glance. 

_Didn’t even tell me where the fucking haberdasher is,_ Jaskier grumbles mentally as he walks. After awhile he realizes he’s back at the first tavern, _Marx’s_ tavern, and he’s somehow hungover and still slightly drunk at the same time. He wishes he could track the way Geralt can; he just wants to be in the forest with him, consequences be damned. Surely he can think of a way to prove his usefulness even without a voice. And if he can’t, if there’s nothing he can do—at the very least he can get some sleep and collect his things before Geralt sends him away—

“Little dandelion!”

 _Melitele, I don’t know what I did, but I apologize profusely and ask that you cut me a_ fucking break _for once in this night—_

Marx leans against a column, _lounges_ , really, looking drunk and smug.

“Made a pretty sum tonight, thanks to you,” he says. “The customers were quite offended on my behalf, and then I was the only performer, so…”

Jaskier just looks at him, hoping he’ll go back inside so he can get to work figuring out which way Geralt went.

“Silent treatment has never been your best weapon,” Marx says. “You can’t resist opening that filthy mouth for too long.”

_Fuck you, fuck you, you absolute fucking asshole, I wish I had listened to Geralt and kept a knife in my doublet, lines of my figure be damned—_

“Have a good night, then?” Marx inspects his nails idly. “Get your end wet?”

He grins at the expression on Jaskier’s face.

“I figured you’d find someone to bed. You always do.”

He’s almost glad for the curse, because he knows without it he’d absolutely be giving Marx the satisfaction of yelling at him. 

“If you’re not too tired, you can always come upstairs,” Marx says. “It’s been awhile since I’ve really properly fucked a slut like you.”

Jaskier is distracted then by what appears to be a shadow on the other man’s face. He steps forward, grabs his arm, and pulls him into the light.

It’s a bruise, inexpertly covered, smeared along the orbit of his left eye. He also smells faintly of… burnt hair?

“Your witcher got a bit testy with me,” Marx says, gesturing to his face. “Sure you know what that’s like.”

Jaskier rocks back, stunned. Geralt _hit_ him? _Burned_ him? What could have possibly—

Hang on, is he implying Geralt would hurt _Jaskier—_

“I heard about his little wish,” Marx says. “Think everyone did. How long did it take for you to recover? I would be surprised you stay with him, but then, you were always like a kicked puppy crawling back—”

Jaskier slaps him so hard his head snaps back, thudding into the post behind him. 

“Good form,” he says after a moment, rubbing his cheek. “A slap. Feminine, but we don’t want to damage the fingers.”

Jaskier just looks at him. How had he _ever_ thought he loved this man, even for a moment? 

A sly, knowing smile curls across Marx’s face. 

“Not coming in, then?” he asks. “Got to go lick the witcher’s boots, I imagine. Hope he didn’t just leave you, hmm? He seemed eager to get out of town, but that could just be me—”

Jaskier turns on his heel and strides away into the dark. Marx’s laughter follows him.

\--

The sky is starting to lighten just the faintest bit by the time Geralt stumbles back into camp. He’s bleeding, too much, and he’s been navigating by memory alone, so it takes him a moment to clock that Roach is no longer the only living thing he smells.

“Jask?” he croaks, looking around. There’s a fire lit, and the bedrolls neatly laid out next to it, but the bard is nowhere to be found. He listens hard, waiting for the sound of lute strings, and after a minute he hears a soft splash. 

“Jaskier!” he calls, a little louder. His medallion gives a little thrum against his chest and he stiffens, turns in a circle, tries to find the source of the magic. The thrum grows stronger, and then Jaskier steps out of the woods into the firelight.

His hair is wet, and he smells like fresh water, and Geralt wants nothing more than to bury his face in the bard’s neck and breathe him in, but then—

The medallion vibrates harder as Jaskier moves toward him. Geralt feels his body tense, sinking into a fighting stance without even meaning to. 

“Who are you?” he asks. “What have you done with my bard?”

Jaskier shakes his head, holds up his hands. He points at himself, at his throat, then spreads his hands and widens his eyes.

“I don’t understand,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier points at his throat again, more emphatically, and shakes his head wildly. He makes a slashing motion across his neck.

“You… can’t speak?”

Jaskier nods.

“It’s magic?”

More nodding, almost frantically.

“But you’re… you? Jaskier?”

Jaskier opens his mouth and closes it. He seems to be searching for a way to prove himself.

“What happened?”

Jaskier flushes from the open neck of his shirt upwards, and Geralt is momentarily distracted as he stares at the other man’s pulse beating in his throat. He gathers himself enough to ask, “Are you hurt?”

Jaskier shakes his head again. Geralt nods and sits down heavily next to the fire. 

“If you aren’t Jaskier, and you try anything, I’ll kill you,” he says. “But for the time being, I have to deal with—”

Jaskier inhales sharply as Geralt peels off his armor, revealing a shirt soaked with blood. He drops to his knees on his own bedroll and starts rummaging through his things, looking for a needle and thread. 

“Can you—” Geralt motions at his own bag. “Kiss?”

Jaskier jerks his head up, eyes and nostrils flaring wide. His heart starts racing.

“The potion,” Geralt says hastily, realizing his error. “For the bleeding.”

Jaskier ducks his head before Geralt can see relief flash across his face, but he knows it’s there. He closes his eyes and feels his head sway dizzily. Hands press gently on his shoulders until he’s lying on his back, and then Jaskier is taking off the rest of his armor, just like he always does after a hunt. 

_What did you get yourself into this time?_ he would ask, clicking his tongue. _Endrega warriors in the dark? I know I joke about your death wish, Geralt, but this is too much._

But the scrape of leather across skin is the only sound he hears. 

He keeps his eyes shut as Jaskier peels away his shirt, wincing as the fabric pulls at the gash in his side.

_Oh, this is nothing, this is a little scratch, darling, don’t worry about it. Barely a few stitches and you’ll be right as rain._

A waterskin nudges his hand and he casts Igni. The waterskin is removed and a moment later a warm, wet cloth is pressed against his skin. 

_See, that’s not so bad, is it? Gods, you bleed a lot. Do you have more blood than the average man? Is that—_

He smells the Kiss draught and opens his lips. The vial is pressed against them softly, tipping the liquid into his mouth. The cloth returns briefly, and then Jaskier squeezes his arm. He nods and the needle slides into his flesh with barely a sting.

“You’re getting good at that,” he says through clenched teeth. He hears a soft huff that might be laughter. He drifts, half-drunk on blood loss and exhaustion, as Jaskier stitches him up. There’s a soft pat on his flank that he knows means he’s done and he opens his eyes. The gash stretches from the back of his ribs down almost to his navel, but the stitches are small and even, and he knows it won’t scar as badly as any wound he received before he met Jaskier.

“Thank you,” he says. 

Jaskier looks at him for a moment before he drops his eyes and dives back into his bag, coming up with a vial of oil. He opens it and holds it up to Geralt’s nose.

“Lavender,” Geralt says. “For scarring?”

Jaskier nods.

“All right,” Geralt says. His eyes close again, against his will, as Jaskier’s fingers meet his skin. He smooths the oil across the wound gently, carefully, and the soft rasp of skin on skin fills Geralt’s ears.

He realizes that this is why Jaskier always talks when he takes care of him. It’s too intimate otherwise, too _tender_ , and it makes him… _want_. Jaskier talks to keep him at a distance, but he can’t do that right now, and Geralt doesn’t want him to have to endure this. He takes Jaskier’s wrist and moves his hand away.

“Hurts,” he says shortly. “Sorry.”

He listens to the sounds of Jaskier cleaning up, putting everything back in his bag, unlacing his doublet and lying down on his own bedroll. The fire flickers against his eyelids. He cracks one eye open to see Jaskier reaching for his notebook, thumbing to an empty page.

“We’ll start for Vizima tomorrow,” he says. “Yennefer will be able to fix you.”

Jaskier glances at him and then back to his pages. 

“Can’t have a bard who can’t sing,” Geralt says. He wants to say something different, something better, but that’s the best his mind can do at this point. His eyes slide shut again as Jaskier’s quill scratches across the paper. 

In the moments before sleep takes him, the smell of salt tickles his nose. He doesn’t have to look to know that the bard is crying. He wills himself to move, to reach out to him, to give him comfort the way Jaskier always does for him. _It will be fine_ , he tells himself to say. _I will find a way to help you_. 

It’s too late, though; he’s asleep before he can do anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, it is a fun and crazy thing to write in a super-active fandom. you are correct if you recognized the songs i slightly bastardized, i'm sorry, jaskier would be a pop god and i am who i am. comments are love!


	3. sunflower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I don't wanna make you feel bad but I've been tryin' hard not to talk to you, sunflower.)  
> The truth will set you free, or it will set your voice free, or it will buy you enough time to kill a monster. You know.

Geralt lets him ride Roach, so apparently he thinks Jaskier is dying. If he could talk, he’d make a joke about how he only gets to be on the horse when Yennefer’s about to save his life. Well, he might. He knows Geralt doesn’t like to be reminded of their first meeting with the sorceress. Makes him sad, or horny, or something. Who knows. They plod down the road in their own little dust cloud, and Jaskier reaches for his lute, but Geralt snaps out a hand and closes it over the strings before he can start playing. 

“You have to play something besides the funeral march you’ve been doing all morning,” he growls. “It’s making Roach sad.”

Jaskier leans forward and strokes her neck. _S_ _orry, girl._ Geralt takes his hand off the lute and says, “Aren’t you working on anything new? You’ve always got some half-finished—“

Jaskier shakes his head. He can’t play anything happy right now, he doesn’t have it in him. No matter where he starts he'll just end up playing one of the many sad songs he writes for himself, plays alone when his path has diverged from Geralt’s, and then he'll probably cry, so, silence it is.

He sighs.

—

The quiet is making Geralt nervous, which is not a welcome feeling. He’s been alone on the Path for most of his life; it shouldn’t bother him that all he can hear is the thud of Roach’s feet, three heartbeats, the wind in the grass. That’s all he ever hears. But with Jaskier here, looking the way he does—it’s almost like the silent treatment, like Geralt has hurt him somehow, and it stings. 

“What do you think Yen will ask for this time?” he asks, trying to put some humor into his tone.

Jaskier shrugs.

“Probably have to kill some sort of gigantic monster,” Geralt says. “I’m sure there’s a dragon that’s pissed her off. Maybe a pack of trolls. Maybe she’ll portal us into some horrible underwater cave to retrieve some rare ingredient she can’t be arsed to fetch herself.”

Jaskier’s shoulders stay slumped, and there’s not even a twitch of the lips to indicate that he’s listening. 

“Jask,” Geralt says. Jaskier glances at him. “She’ll fix it.”

Jaskier’s mouth twists and he looks back at Roach’s neck. 

“And if she can’t, we’ll—we’ll find someone who can,” Geralt says. “She’s strong, but there are stronger mages out there.”

Jaskier nods curtly, then kicks Roach into a trot that leaves Geralt jogging to catch up.

—

He can’t let Geralt drag him all over the continent trying to get his voice back, not when he knows exactly how to do it. It just hurts to see how desperate he is for a cure, how completely Jaskier’s value to him lies in his voice.

If Yennefer can’t help him, he decides, he’ll confess and then leave. Geralt won’t have to deal with him anymore, and at least he'll have his first great love back to comfort him about the loss of his second. Heartbreak songs do well in certain taverns; he certainly won’t go hungry. He'll keep bedding strangers until he finds one that, maybe, makes him forget. 

He can leave Geralt, he tells himself. If he has to. 

—

Geralt slams the door of Yennefer's bedchamber open with perhaps more force than is warranted. Her eyes go to him, then flick to Jaskier, stricken and silent, and her eyebrows lift so high they're in danger of leaving her head altogether. "Again?"

“It’s not my fault this time,” Geralt says. “We don’t know what caused it.” 

Yennefer’s eyes find Jaskier’s and he holds his breath, wondering if she can sense a lie. His question is answered a moment later when she says, “Geralt, can you find me some juice, please? There should be some in the cellar. Ask one of the girls.” 

He nods and backs out of the room with an anxious glance at them. Yennefer waits until his footsteps have receded and then rises from her chair and walks toward Jaskier.

“You reek of elf magic,” she says lightly. “There's chaos oozing out of your pores.”

He nods. 

“Not news to you, I see.”

He shakes his head.

“So you do know what happened.”

He nods. Heat floods his cheeks.

“And it’s not something you want Geralt to know about.”

Even his ears are red now, he can feel it. She steps forward and puts her hand on his throat, gripping loosely. She closes her eyes, looking almost like she’s listening. “He gave you a key,” she murmurs. “To break it yourself.”

She lets go of him and sits back down, slinging one long leg over the other.

“What do you have to do, and why don’t you want to do it?”

He just stares at her. How could he even begin—

“Is it a deed of some kind? A spell? An object? Are you supposed to bring it back to the mage, or is it enough to find it? How did this curse come about?”

He sighs. He looks at her, gestures toward himself. Then he taps his chest, over his heart. Then he waves miserably at the door Geralt left through.

Her eyes widen. “Really?” 

He nods.

“And all you have to do is tell—?"

Yennefer starts laughing, the sound bright and cruel as it echoes through her chamber. He feels his shoulders slump. “I’m sorry,” she says, and she actually does sound sorry. “I don’t mean to—it’s just, it’s _Geralt—_ ”

She snorts. “Sorry. Sorry. Really, I am.”

He glares at her. 

“Triss?” she calls over her shoulder.

There’s a rustling sound, and then a tousled red head lifts itself out of the bedclothes. “Muh?”

“Come here a moment, my love,” Yennefer says. Jaskier feels his world tilt on its axis as the redhead slips out of bed, pads over to them, and leans down to kiss Yennefer full on the mouth. Yennefer catches his gaze and laughs. 

“Did Geralt not mention her?”

He just stares. 

“He actually introduced us,” the redhead—Triss?—says. “It’s a really funny story, you should ask him about it sometime.”

Yennefer pulls her close and whispers something in her ear. Triss’ eyes get big. “Oh,” she breathes. “Okay.”

She sinks down into the chair with Yennefer, wiggling until they’re both comfortable, then looks at Jaskier again. “So you’re the bard,” she says. 

He points at his throat. _Not anymore_.

“Oh, don’t be so maudlin, I’m sure we can do something—”

“He can do it himself,” Yennefer says with a cutting glance at him. “He just has to—”

“I found juice,” Geralt says. Jaskier jumps about a foot in the air.

Yennefer stretches out a hand for the pitcher. “Thank you, darling,” she says. “I think we can fix your friend.”

Jaskier waits for the inevitable _we’re not friends_ , but all Geralt says is, “How?”

“I need a day,” she says. “To wrangle everything. And I have to speak to Tissaia, as much as I loathe her. This will cost you.”

Geralt sighs. “Name your price.”

Triss grins and whispers something in Yennefer’s ear.

“You may have noticed the air of… direness about the village you passed through on the way here?” Yennefer asks. “The sort of _haze_ of despair?”

“Mm.”

“Well, ordinarily they’d be getting ready for a little festival they like to throw on my behalf, but there’s a leshen in the woods nearby that keeps killing them. I’d handle it myself, but now I’ve got this to deal with, and I really like that festival, and it’s supposed to take place tonight, so... “

“Fine,” Geralt says. 

“Take the bard,” Yennefer says. “I can’t have him moping around while I’m working with chaos.”

Geralt sighs and heads for the door. “Come on, then.”

Jaskier casts a glance back over his shoulder as he falls into step behind him, just long enough to see Triss wink at him. 

_Bollocks._

—

He is acutely aware of Jaskier behind him, and it’s making him anxious. He’s carrying a dagger, and looking fairly competent with it, but Geralt’s mind is filled with images of the bard dying silently before he can even turn around. He thinks about all the times he's told Jaskier to shut up so he can listen for danger, and he makes a small promise somewhere in the back of his mind that if the bard gets his voice back he'll let him chatter as much as he wants, and he'll listen, and he'll tell him he likes his music. Maybe.

The village is less than an hour from Yennefer’s keep, and Geralt can feel the presence of the leshen even before they enter. The little hamlet is cloaked in darkness, a fog of fear and hopelessness that makes his eyes sting. As they pass the alderman’s cottage, Jaskier tugs on his arm, a question in his eyes.

“Don’t need him,” Geralt says. “He’s not the one paying us this time.”

Jaskier nods and they continue on, through the empty streets, until they reach the edge of the woods.

Geralt turns around and takes Jaskier by the shoulders. “You need to stay here,” he says. “I won’t be able to hear you if something happens to you.”

Jaskier shakes his head, lifting the dagger, and his meaning is clear. _I can help_.

“I can’t fight with you underfoot,” Geralt says. “I can’t risk” _—losing you—_ “distraction.” 

Jaskier’s face falls. Geralt has the almost irresistible urge to hug him, but he knows it won’t help. It’s just—it's so difficult like this, with Jaskier’s voice gone. Geralt only has his face to tell him what he’s feeling, and that means he has to be constantly _looking_ at him, watching every emotion shiver across his face, watching his eyes and lips and—

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be quick and you’ll have your voice back before you know it.”

Jaskier nods and does something that another person might call a smile, but Geralt’s seen that face before, and he knows it for what it is: pain.

“Just… just stay here,” he says. He reaches out, searching for an innocent gesture of comfort, and sort of… taps his shoulder. He turns away before he can do anything stupider and ducks into the forest, feeling Jaskier’s eyes on his back as he goes.

—

Jaskier waits approximately five minutes before tying Roach to a tree and stepping into the woods.

Fucking Geralt, always leaving him behind. As if he’s never been helpful, as if he’s never gotten them out of a tight spot. He _tackled_ a bruxa once, headbutted it right in the stomach, and did he get thanked for that? No, Geralt _scolded_ him. Like he was a puppy. _I can’t risk you getting hurt,_ he said, and Jaskier knows what that means. _You’re a liability. I can’t look after you._ Well, he’ll show him. He can’t sing, but he can still fight. He’s worth keeping around.

He argues with himself as he pushes his way through the forest, trying to keep his steps quiet. Why does he _want_ Geralt to keep him around, anyway? Why is it so important? Geralt is dangerous and moody and he doesn't even like his music, and he’s—he's _Jaskier the bard_. He’s handsome and talented and he can have anyone he wants, almost, except for the one person he actually—

A twig snaps behind him and he whirls around, dagger at the ready. He doesn’t see anything, but—wait—

He dives sideways, rolls onto his back, and guts the wolf as it leaps over him. The animal yowls and twists and its innards shower down on him before it thumps to the ground behind him, dead.

He wipes the blood out of his eyes and gets to his feet. He knows leshen can command wolves, and—crows, he thinks, right? Crows? But he’s not that deep into the woods yet, and he doesn’t think their range of influence is that far, and—

Smoke begins to curl in the air above the wolf’s carcass. 

_No, no, fuck, shit, fuck_ —

Jaskier bolts.

—

Geralt flings another Yrden at the leshen, stopping it in its tracks, but it roars and dissolves into smoke and reappears behind him, knocking him to the ground. His mouth tastes like poison; he’s taken too many potions and he’s still flagging. He surges up, seizes an antler and pulls the leshen’s head down toward him, thrusting the point of his sword up beneath its chin. It howls and plunges its arms into the ground. Geralt struggles to pull the sword back, knowing what’s about to happen, and he has to let it go and roll away as sharp roots erupt from the ground all around the leshen. One of them grazes his calf and he feels the muscle part like butter. He scrambles to his feet and turns, reaching for the steel sword, and the leshen vanishes once more. His silver sword drops to the ground. He dives for it, rolling to his feet as his calf screams in agony, and turns in a circle, scanning the woods. _Where—?_

A crow swoops down out of the trees and rakes claws across his face. Another follows, and he only narrowly avoids its searching talons. He curses and scrambles behind a tree, still looking for tendrils of smoke, and then a wolf bursts out of the underbrush. 

—

 _Why does it look like that, I thought they all had antlers, what in seven hells_ —

Jaskier skids around another tree, gasping for breath, and turns to see the leshen moving implacably toward him. It keeps shifting in and out of some sort of cat form; two legs to four, empty skull to gleaming, dripping fangs. It seems to drift across the ground, hissing as it approaches, and all he can do is keep running. 

—

Geralt meets the wolf head-on, no time to bring the sword up, and sinks his teeth into its throat. Blood spurts across his face as he flings the body away from him, throwing Igni after it. Another set of jaws clamps shut on his arm and he stifles a scream, thrusts his hand into its face and burns its eyes out. The wolf drops to the ground whimpering, pawing at its face, and he breaks its neck so it doesn’t suffer. The leshen hisses somewhere in the distance and he whips his head up, scenting, turning in a circle as he tries to track the sound. 

—

Jaskier climbs the tree faster than he ever thought he could move. Crows wheel around him, trying to get close enough to blind him, but the thick-set branches keep them at bay. He’s bleeding from half a dozen shallow wounds, he’s covered in wolf guts, and the dagger clenched between his teeth is dangerously close to slicing his cheeks open. He scrambles higher and higher, mind blank with terror, and he’s almost to the top of the tree when he hears a very faint, very familiar growl of pain.

_Geralt—?_

He looks down to see a flash of silver a short distance away. The leshen is on him, claws scrabbling at his armor, trying to get at his heart. Wolves circle them hungrily, waiting for an opening. He keeps losing sight of them through the branches. He leans down, cranes his neck _—_

The other leshen materializes beneath his tree. It starts as a cat again, and it seems like it's about to start climbing toward Jaskier, but then the other leshen makes a sound, a cry of triumph, and the one that's been hunting Jaskier snaps its head up and turns.

_Fuck shit fuck fuck fuck, Geralt, look up—_

Geralt doesn’t see it.

_Look up, look up look up look up—_

It shifts back onto two legs, smoke twisting upward into antlers, and it starts to move toward Geralt. More wolves emerge from the forest behind it, following as one, and the witcher's attention is focused on the leshen with its claws in his chest. 

_Gods damn it all to fucking hell Geralt I swear—_

Jaskier starts climbing down the tree, moving as fast as he can without simply falling out of it, but the second leshen is advancing quickly now and Geralt doesn’t even have a hand free to cast a sign.

 _Oh for the love of Melitele's fucking dripping_ _cunt—_

He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth and he feels something unlock in his throat and then he yells, as loud as he can, _“Geralt I’m in love with you and there is another leshen turn the fuck around right fucking now!”_ and then he simply lets go of the tree and drops the last fifteen feet onto the ground.

He manages to roll out of it onto his feet and he hasn’t sliced his face open and he takes the dagger from between his teeth and sprints for the nearest wolf, stabbing down through its skull and dropping heavily to the ground on top of it, and he looks up to see stunned, wide eyes on him for half a second before Geralt whirls and takes the first leshen’s head off with a single blow. Jaskier wrenches the dagger free and leaps to his feet and another wolf is advancing on him, teeth bared and bloody, and behind him Geralt roars and there’s the ring of silver on bone and then the wolf slumps to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. He watches as it shakes its head, dazed, then gets to its feet and trots away into the forest. The others follow it, the crows settle into the trees, and then he’s alone with Geralt and the headless corpses of two leshen.

Geralt sheathes his swords, breathing heavily, and turns to face him. His eyes are black, tendrils of toxicity snaking across his bone-white face. He’s covered in blood, his armor scored to the skin in places, and he’s so, so beautiful.

“Sorry,” Jaskier says quietly. It’s all he can manage.

Geralt looks at him, and there’s something in his face Jaskier can’t read. It—it almost looks like confusion, or even sadness, or—

Geralt takes a step toward him, and then another, and Jaskier braces himself for fury, for shouting, for disgust and hate, and then a portal spins open and Yennefer steps into the forest.

“Wonderful,” she says, looking at the leshen sprawled on the ground. “Grab those and let’s get back to the village. The party's about to start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *chloe from don't trust the b voice* i extended it! i extended the list! sorry about that. i figured you'd rather have something sooner than later and this would have been a really, really long single chapter. we should only have one left, though, so don't despair. comments are love!


	4. just let me adore you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> confessions! fucking! tenderness! fucking! sorry this chapter is long enough to be two chapters, i didn't want to lie more than i already had, so you get a nice long sendoff.

The festival is already in full swing. Geralt doesn’t know how long they were in the forest, but apparently it was long enough to butcher several pigs and build a very unsettling stick-replica of Yen. There’s a massive bonfire in the center square, and children are running every which way with flower crowns and candied fruit in their sticky hands. 

“Why do they do this, exactly?” Geralt asks, only half paying attention. His mind is still back in the woods, Jaskier’s voice echoing through his head. _Geralt, I’m—_

“I fixed the water,” Yen says, breaking his reverie. “The reservoir was contaminated, so they broke the aqueduct to keep it from getting into town, but then all the crops were dying because the nearest clean water was two days away—”

“Mage Yennefer!” someone cries, sloshing a mug into the air to toast her. “Your health and fortune!”

“Thank you,” she says demurely. “And to you as well.”

They find a place to sit beside the bonfire, and a little girl runs up to them with what appears to be half a pig on a plate. Geralt tears off a piece and eats it. The poison is leaving his system; he can feel the adrenaline crash approaching. 

“Where’s the bard?” Yen asks, looking at the fire. 

“Triss took him somewhere,” Geralt says. 

“She’s going to make him sing,” Yen says. “Bet on it.”

“Does she—”

“Oh, she can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” Yen says with a grin. “But she loves music, and now that he’s fixed—”

“Did you… do that?” Geralt asks. “How—”

“No,” Yen says. “He did it himself.”

“What?”

She sighs. “He could have done it at any time.”

“But—what? Why? What did he have to—?”

“You should probably talk to him about that,” she says serenely, and pops a piece of meat into her mouth. “She certainly found a good color for him.”

Geralt looks up to see Triss leading Jaskier out of the alderman’s cottage. He’s wearing a saffron-yellow doublet trimmed in gold; he looks like the sun. A brief, ludicrous thought that looks something like _then I’m a sunflower_ skitters across his mind _. Geralt, I—_

He shakes his head. Jaskier doesn’t meet his eyes as Triss shoves him toward a makeshift stage and hands him his lute. 

“Hi, everyone,” he says tentatively. The clamor around the bonfire doesn’t stop. Triss puts two fingers to her lips and whistles. 

“Everyone _quiet_ ,” she barks. “This is Jaskier the bard, and he is here to sing for you.”

Jaskier smiles weakly and gives a little wave.

“Hi, everyone,” he says again. “Um. Thanks very much for having me. I’ll just—”

He gestures awkwardly with the lute. Geralt can’t figure out why he looks so lost. He should be thrilled right now; he’s got his voice back. As he thinks about it, his heart sinks. _Of course_. He had to tell Geralt—had to say _those words—_

But _why?_

Something twists in his chest.

“They were trying to hurt me,” he says. 

“What? Shh,” Yen whispers, burying her face in her mug.. 

“They thought I’d attack him,” Geralt says miserably. “Or… or worse. Wouldn’t be able to control myself, and then… then he’d leave me.”

Yen pulls her drink away from her face and turns to him, eyes narrowed. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes,” he says, confused.

“Are you stupid?”

He blinks at her.

“Are you a stupid person?”

“What—”

She sighs and puts the mug down by her feet, then puts her hands on his shoulders.

“I know you have witcher-brain, and when you hear hoofbeats you think… horse monsters, or something, but what is the actual simplest explanation here?”

He shakes his head. “Yen, there’s no way—”

“Look at him,” she snaps. “He looks like Roach stepped on his foot. Why do you think he looks like that?”

“Because he hasn’t been able to tell me he didn’t mean it yet,” Geralt snaps. “He thinks I’m over here— _plotting_ something, getting ready to _grab_ him—”

Her hands drop from his shoulders and come up to drag down her face, delicately, so as not to leave marks. “You _are_ stupid.”

“I know what I am,” he says. “There’s a difference. No one loves a witcher.”

“I loved you once,” she says, picking her drink back up. 

“Magic.”

“Triss loved you. We both still love you, just not… in that way, anymore. But you’re still the man we loved.”

“Not a man,” Geralt says. “And I don’t want to say he’s a better person than either of you, but—”

“Why would that make him less likely to love you?”

Geralt sighs. “Yen, you don’t—you can’t know—”

“If you’re about to say I don’t know what it’s like to feel unworthy of love, I will curse your lips off your face,” she says lightly.

He puts his hand on hers, the one not holding her ale, and squeezes. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” she says. “You’re being stupid. Now hush.”

He looks at the stage. Jaskier’s finished the warm-up song, as he calls it, something about taking his horse to an old road, which Geralt made fun of when he wrote it because when was the last time _he_ took a horse _anywhere_ , but it rivals even "Toss a Coin" for how much people love it. Now he starts strumming something low and almost sultry. 

“He’s looking everywhere but at you,” Yen murmurs. 

“Because he’s upset with me,” Geralt snaps. 

“Because he told you his deepest secret,” Yen snaps back, “and now he’s afraid.”

“Bullshit.” 

She rolls her eyes and gets to her feet, then walks toward Triss in something just slightly more delicate than a stomp. Geralt looks back at Jaskier, who’s currently making wistful eyes at a girl in a crown of hyacinths.

_Honey, I’d walk through fire for you / just let me adore you like it’s the only thing I’ll ever do_

A faint flush rises to Jaskier’s cheekbones as he sings and Geralt has to look away. His gaze falls on Triss, who’s staring directly at him with her foot tapping a mile a minute as Yen whispers in her ear.

_You are stupid_ , Triss mouths, jabbing a finger at him with each word for good measure. 

He looks away. They don’t know. How could they know? How could Jaskier—how could someone like him even _think—_

He shakes his head and drains the rest of his ale, bitterness sitting heavy on his tongue. Jaskier plays on, and Geralt watches him. 

—

Every time he looks at Geralt, Geralt’s looking somewhere else. He’s actively avoiding meeting his eyes. He can’t even look at him now that he knows the truth.

_If this is the last time_ , he thinks, _let it be the best_. If Geralt never hears his voice again, let him remember it at its finest, with all the force of his love behind it. 

He sings every song he’s ever written for him, emotion brimming and spilling from his lips like wine from an overfull glass. The townsfolk love it; he can feel them falling for him like everyone (almost everyone) does when he sings. He holds it together admirably, he tells himself, and no one knows he’s miserable.

He plays for almost an hour, and Geralt doesn’t meet his eyes once.

—

Jaskier takes a bow, sweeps his arms out and ducks his head, looks up through his lashes at the nearest person—a blacksmith, maybe—and Geralt’s grip tightens on the empty plate. He sets it down before he can break it. 

“Thank you all,” Jaskier says. “It’s been a pleasure. Enjoy your evening.”

He disappears back into the alderman’s cottage. Geralt stands, unsure of what he’s doing, and starts making his way toward the food almost instinctively. He knows Jaskier won’t have eaten before the performance, and he’s probably starving. 

Triss sidles up to him as he fills a plate.

“Got a lovely voice, he does,” she says. 

Geralt grunts.

“Like a lark. Just lovely.”

He concentrates on separating a turkey leg from its owner’s body. 

“Makes you wonder who all those songs are about, doesn’t it?”

He glances at her. She’s grinning.

“Fuck off,” he mutters.

“Is it so hard to believe? All the people who throw themselves at you, and this is a bridge too far?”

“Those—I—it’s different,” he says weakly. “They don’t want to _be_ with me, they want—you know, a quick—they want to know what it’s like to fuck a monster.”

Triss’s voice gets low and somber, almost dangerous. “Do you really believe that?”

He shrugs. “Haven’t been wrong about it yet.”

She makes an aggravated rumbling sound deep in her throat. “So _stupid,_ ” she murmurs, almost to herself. 

“Just leave it,” he says. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve never seen a man so committed to being unhappy,” she says, looking at him. “Truly. It would be impressive if it weren’t so infuriating.”

He turns away.

—

There’s a knock on the door of the alderman’s cottage, and Jaskier opens it with a towel over his head, still rubbing at his damp hair. 

“I told you I was just going to have a quick rinse—”

He stops talking, lets the towel fall to the floor.

“You’re not Triss,” he says. _Idiot_.

“No,” Geralt agrees. He’s holding a plate loaded with food. “I brought you dinner.”

“Well, aren’t you sweet,” Jaskier says, then feels all the blood drain from his face. It’s reflexive, the way he talks to Geralt, real affection cloaked in frills and lace, but that was before he knew—

“Sorry,” he says shortly, taking the plate. “Thanks. Thank you. That’s very—thank you.”

Geralt nods, looking faintly ill. 

“Any review?” Jaskier asks, trying to smile. “Not bad enough to want me to starve, I suppose.”

“You were fine,” Geralt says. “Good. Lots of new ones, they were—it was all fine.”

Jaskier lifts his eyebrows. “High praise.”

Geralt swallows hard and nods. He looks so uncomfortable, and Jaskier has the strongest urge to just grab him and blurt out _I didn’t mean it, I swear_. Anything to get this look off his face.

“Well, thanks again,” he says instead. “I should, um—I’m dripping on the floor.”

“Right,” Geralt says. “Right. Well. Okay.”

He turns and walks away fast. Jaskier sets the plate down, closes the door and rests his forehead against it. _That fucking elf_ , he thinks. But no, he can’t blame the elf. He’s the one who let this get out of control, this pitiful obsession of his. As if Geralt could ever love him. Geralt, who barely tolerates his presence, who fucks beautiful, competent sorceresses and kills monsters single-handedly. 

He lifts his head just enough to thump it against the door. 

Someone raps their knuckles on the other side, right against his forehead. 

“Look, I’m sorry,” he starts, flinging it open. “Oh. Gods. Can everyone just announce themselves—”

Triss pushes him gently aside and steps in, followed by Yen.

“Oh, lovely,” he says. “Can I put my shirt on properly, or—”

“I’m tired of this,” Yen says shortly. “You’re both adults. It’s undignified.”

She folds her arms and stares at him. He can feel his hair is doing something absurd, and he starts patting at his head, trying to flatten it down. She waves a hand and suddenly his hair is dry beneath his fingers.

“Creepy,” he says, putting his hand down. “Thanks. Are we leaving?”

“I probably owe them another half hour,” Yen says. “You can go if you’re ready, though. Now that the leshen are gone, the way back to the keep should be uneventful.”

“You knew there was more than one, didn’t you?” Jaskier realizes. “Gods, of course—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. “Triss, do you know what he’s talking about?”

“Did you just want to humiliate me?” he demands. “There are less cruel ways to do that, you know—”

“Look, I know how Yen can be,” Triss interrupts him. “I know how she can… seem. But I promise you, nothing that happened tonight was not for your benefit—”

“I told you I love him and you _laughed_ ,” Jaskier hisses. 

“Because it’s _Geralt!”_ Yen snaps. “He—oh, gods, you’re both so _obtuse—_ ”

“What’s wrong with Geralt?” he demands hotly. “Why is it so—”

“He _loves you_ ,” Triss says, putting her hand flat on his chest. 

They all stare at each other for a moment.

“Bullshit,” Jaskier says.

Yen sighs.

—

Geralt paces around the village, trying to smile at people when they thank him, trying to stay out of sight. He can’t stop thinking about Jaskier, about the way his smile had shuttered and dimmed as they spoke. They can’t ignore what’s happened, that much is clear, but maybe he can clear the air. Just get him alone, tell him he’s safe, release him from whatever insane obligation he thinks he’s been forced to make with that declaration. Let him know nothing has to change between them. 

He can do that; he can even tell him he wants him to stay, maybe, if he steels himself. He’s never been kind enough to Jaskier, always too afraid to give himself away, but he could find a middle ground. He can treat him better without showing his heart, making him uncomfortable. He can and he will. He just has to—

A twig snaps behind him and he freezes, instantly alert, realizing he’s made it a ways away from the village, out onto the darkened path into the woods. He tenses, reaches for his swords, and then he smells a familiar scent. Gods, he’s not ready, he doesn’t know what he’s going to say, he wonders for a moment if he can _hide_ and then Jaskier steps into the moonlight.

—

Geralt is standing on the path in the dark, looking remarkably ghostly, and Jaskier yelps. “Gods, Geralt, you great wildcat, you can’t just _sneak—"_

“Are you in love with me?”

Jaskier stops cold, staring at him. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. Clears his throat. A strange look of surprise and what could almost be despair flashes across Geralt’s face, but it smooths back into blankness before he speaks again. His voice is rough. “Are you?”

“I—Geralt—” Jaskier makes an abortive gesture with his hands, trying desperately not to think about Triss saying _He loves you_ and saying it again before he can stop himself. There’s no way, there’s _no way—_

“It’s all right,” Geralt says. “I knew it wasn’t—I just wanted to be sure. I just wanted you not to worry that I’d—I’d act on it, or something.”

Jaskier blinks a few times. _Worry_ that he’d act on it? Why would he _worry_ —

“I’m sorry,” he says at last, doing his best to control his voice. “What’s happening now?”

“You’re safe with me, Jask,” Geralt says. “That’s all I’m saying. No matter how I—I wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt you.”

“Stop talking, please,” Jaskier says, moving closer to him. “Well, no, keep—explain what you’re saying, because—”  
“I know whoever cursed you did it to hurt me,” Geralt says, his face etched with sorrow. 

A weird anger starts to twist through Jaskier as he turns this over in his mind. How dare he make this about him? It’s _about him_ , obviously, but not—not like _that_ , it’s not a punishment for _him_ , and how arrogant can he _be—_

He folds his arms and stares at Geralt. “Oh? How do you figure?”

“They—I don’t know how they knew, but—they thought they could—get me to drive you away,” Geralt says haltingly.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, and Geralt _shivers_. He steps closer. “Are you saying, in earnest, that your understanding of this situation is that someone cursed me, told me to confess my love for you, with the ultimate goal of… causing you to attack me?”

“Not _attack_ ,” Geralt says. “But do something that… that made you leave.”

“Which would be what, exactly?”

Geralt looks at him almost pleadingly. Jaskier just waits. The anger is starting to warm into excitement, into fear and nervousness, and he’s afraid he’s wrong, and he’s afraid of what he might say. 

Geralt drops his gaze to the ground. “Reciprocate,” he says quietly. 

Something sparks up Jaskier’s spine and it feels like triumph. He steps forward again, until they’re just a few inches apart, until he can feel the heat coming off Geralt like a furnace.

“So to be clear,” he says, angling his head so he can meet Geralt’s eyes. Geralt tries to turn his face away and Jaskier reaches up and carefully turns it back toward him. Geralt closes his eyes and then his hand slowly floats up and places itself atop Jaskier’s. 

“To be clear,” Jaskier says again, quieter, “you think I’m not in love with you, and that I would leave you if you—”

Geralt’s eyes snap open, fully gold again, burning into him. “Wouldn’t you?”

—

Jaskier throws his hands into the air and makes a strangled noise of rage Geralt has never heard from him before. 

“Did you or did you not hear me in the forest?” he demands. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Jask—”

_“What did I say?”_ he growls, spinning around. 

“You said you’re in love with me,” Geralt murmurs. 

Jaskier flails his arms. “Well?!”

Geralt reaches for him.

He closes his hand on one shoulder, draws it down Jaskier’s arm to his wrist. Takes his hand, threads their fingers together. Jaskier is breathing hard, eyes wild, face flushed like he’s been running. He smells like lute oil and honey and cedar, tinged with the faint hint of star anise that always accompanies him after a performance. 

“It wasn’t to hurt you,” Jaskier says angrily. “It was to hurt me. Because the elf I was fucking heard me say _your_ name.”

Geralt inhales sharply, star anise hitting the back of his throat and sending tendrils of heat curling through him. 

_“You_ would leave,” Jaskier says. “Not me. I’m no use to you without a voice. You said it yourself.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Geralt says urgently. “You know I’m no good at—Jask, I wouldn’t care—”

He stops, takes another breath, tries to corral his racing thoughts. “I would miss your voice,” he says at last. “I _did_ miss your voice. Terribly. But if we couldn’t get it back I wouldn’t be upset because you couldn’t _sing_ about me. You wouldn’t be _happy._ That’s what I would care about.”

Jaskier looks at him, eyes bright even in the dark. _He does such a good job of looking small,_ Geralt thinks distractedly. They’re practically the same height, and his shoulders are broad under the doublet—

“You missed my voice?”

“I did,” Geralt says. “But I’d still want you with me if you never got it back.”

Jaskier watches him carefully as he asks, “And if I were in love with you? Would you want me with you then?”

_Yes. Yes. More than anything._

His hand tightens on Jaskier’s, but he can’t say it. It can’t be real.

“No one loves a witcher,” he mutters.

Jaskier _yanks_ his hand away, lifts it like he’s going to hit him. “Are you _fucking serious_ ,” he hisses, and then he grabs the back of Geralt’s neck and kisses him. 

It’s angry at first, fierce and harsh and too raw, years of frustration evident in the way Jaskier presses into him. He digs his fingers into his skin, saying something Geralt could never have believed, and Geralt’s head spins with it. He opens his mouth, slips his tongue against Jaskier’s and feels him soften, draws him closer. He thumbs along the line of his jaw, listening to his heartbeat, bites gently at his lips, curls his tongue behind his teeth. The world narrows to their joined mouths, the wet slide of them together, breathing one another in. Jaskier slides a hand into Geralt’s hair and pulls slightly, sending fire crackling down his spine, and he tries and fails to muffle a tiny gasp. He drags his nails down Jaskier’s shoulders, tightening his arms around him, feels his breathing catch and stutter as he licks deeper into his mouth. He cups his face, trails his fingers down the sides of his neck, trying to touch all of him at once, unable to stay still. He feels drunk, dizzy; he’s almost afraid he’s dreaming but Jaskier is all soft lips and hair and hands, warm and solid, and his heart beats hard against Geralt’s chest and it’s real, real, real. Jaskier finally breaks the kiss, but he doesn’t move away. He just looks at Geralt and waits, still breathing hard. 

“I want you with me,” Geralt says, fingers drifting through the hair at his temple, around the shell of his ear. “Always. As long as you want.”

“And?” Jaskier challenges. 

“And I like it when you sing,” Geralt says. “And I’d never leave you.”

Jaskier grins like a hungry wolf. 

“Gods,” Yen says, appearing with the suddenness of the previously-invisible. “At last.”

Geralt drops his hands to Jaskier’s waist, but he doesn’t let go. Jaskier turns in his grip to look at her. 

“Terrifying, as always. Where’s Triss?”

“At home, asleep, where I would desperately like to be,” Yen says. “Do you feel you can continue this indoors? Perhaps in bed?”

Jaskier’s heartbeat picks up a little, and Geralt puts his nose to the space behind his ear and inhales. Star anise, even stronger now. Yen rolls her eyes and sweeps a portal open. 

“I told you,” she tosses over her shoulder before she steps through. 

Jaskier turns just enough to catch Geralt’s lips with his own and then ducks into the portal. Geralt follows. 

—

He waits until the door of their chamber closes and then pounces, muscling Geralt toward the wall until his back is flat against it. He leans in and bites his neck hard, feels him shudder. He puts one hand on the wall above Geralt’s shoulder and uses the other to pull his leg up and around his waist, pressing into him. Geralt winds both arms around his neck and hooks his other leg around him too, letting Jaskier take his weight. He grabs Geralt’s thighs, digging his fingers into the muscle, and pivots away from the wall. He carries Geralt across the room, still sucking a mark into his neck, and tumbles them both onto the bed. 

“You’re heavy,” he says against his lips.

“You’re strong,” Geralt says, slotting one thigh between Jaskier’s. Jaskier sighs and grinds down into him, still waiting to wake up and find this is all a dream. He strokes Geralt’s hair back from his face, then winds his hand into it and pulls. Geralt’s face goes slack, his mouth drops open, and he breathes, “Harder.”

Jaskier pulls harder, watches his throat work as his head tips back, leans down and sets his teeth against Geralt’s pulse. He flicks his tongue over the slow, steady beat, luxuriates in the groan it pulls from deep in his chest. 

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, pulling away to look at him. Geralt turns his face, closes his eyes, and Jaskier can feel him objecting without words. “No,” he says firmly, “no, no, come here, look at me.” He puts a hand on Geralt’s face, hooks his thumb under his jaw and pulls until they’re eye to eye.

“If you could see yourself,” he says. “If you had any idea.”

“Jask,” Geralt whispers, embarrassed, averting his eyes, trying to turn away again.

“What do I need to do to prove it to you?” Jaskier challenges. “Smell me. You know I’m not lying.”

“I—you—”

Geralt presses his lips together. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just—you’re so—”

He reaches up, draws a finger along the line of his brow, his cheekbone, his jaw. 

“Your face,” he says softly. 

“We’re talking about _your_ face, Witcher.”

Geralt growls, then hooks a leg around Jaskier’s and rolls them over. 

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. “All right, then.”

Geralt lowers his head until their lips brush together. 

“If I tell you I believe you,” he whispers, “will you stop talking?”

“You know I won’t, Ger— _oh!”_

Jaskier stifles a gasp. Geralt’s hand is in his pants, on his cock, and he actually might have to stop talking if he keeps doing whatever he’s doing with his fingers, which is—

“Melitele, Geralt,” he pants. “You can’t just—just—”

Geralt kisses him, and he loses whatever he was about to say. He pulls at the hem of his shirt, frees it from his trousers and slips his hands under it. He’s touched Geralt before, a _lot_ , but never—never like—

He yelps and pushes Geralt off him.

“Wha—”

“You’re _bleeding_ , Geralt!” 

“It’s fine,” Geralt says gruffly, reaching for him. Jaskier bats his hands away. 

“Absolutely not,” he says. “No, no, I’m not about to—I’ve been waiting for this for, for _years_ , I’m not—”

“Just be gentle,” Geralt says, pupils dilated in the dim light. Jaskier sighs and sits up. 

“I will, always, if you want me to, you big oaf,” he says. “But I had entertained the idea of—mm—if you’re amenable, obviously, I had—”

“Jask,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier stands, puts his hands on his hips. “This is not the way I’d planned on having this conversation,” he says with a glare. “Obviously I want you in whatever manner you choose, whatever would make you happiest, but I had wondered, I had had the idea that perhaps, maybe, I might fuck you within an inch of your life. And I can do that gently, and don’t get me wrong, I’d _love_ to, but you’ve always struck me as a man that might like a good—I don’t know, might like a certain amount of—of—not having control, or—you know? Am I—oh, bollocks, Geralt, say something, your face—”

Geralt’s eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open, and he sits up slowly. He pulls his shirt up over his head, not bothering to hide a hiss of pain, and meets Jaskier’s eyes.

“Make it quick,” he says, and lays back down. 

“Oh, good boy, that’s beautiful, thank you—” Jaskier knows he’s babbling as he hastily gathers his needles, but he can’t stop or he’ll have some kind of panic attack thinking about what he’s just said. To Geralt. Who seemed… not to mind.

“Drink this,” he says, handing Geralt a glass of wine. Geralt keeps his eyes on Jaskier’s face as he does, letting a drop of wine escape from his lips and trail down his neck to his bare chest. 

“Melitele,” Jaskier mutters, “you’ll be my death, Geralt—”

The wound isn’t as bad as he feared, two scores from claws and a third that didn’t break the skin, and he works as quickly as he can. He keeps getting distracted by the fact that he can just _touch_ Geralt, touch him in places that aren’t hurt, press his lips to any scar on any part of him—

Geralt makes a low rumbling noise in his chest that Jaskier can _feel_ as he swipes his tongue gently over his nipple. He brings a hand up to cup the back of Jaskier’s head, tightens his grip as Jaskier does it again. 

“Are you finished?” His voice is ragged, like he can’t catch his breath.

“Almost,” Jaskier murmurs, biting him. Geralt shivers and growls, “ _Get on with it_.”

Jaskier pulls away, takes a drink of his own wine, hands the rest to Geralt. He makes another stitch, a knot, leans down and bites off the excess. “There,” he says. “Now—”

He yelps as Geralt grabs him, rolling him onto his back. “Needle, needle, Geralt—”

Geralt takes the needle and flings it away, lowering himself onto Jaskier, caging him in with his arms. His hair falls forward, framing his face, trailing across Jaskier’s shoulders as he ducks to press his lips against his neck. 

“This,” he rumbles, sliding his hand into Jaskier’s shirt, “has to come off.”

Jaskier nods, tries to untangle himself. He finally wriggles out from under Geralt, peels his shirt off, hooks his thumbs into his trousers and pauses, suddenly nervous. 

“What?” Geralt asks, shifting to his knees beside him. “Do you want me to—”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says. “Are you—is this—”

Geralt puts his hand on his chest, drags his fingers through the thick hair there. Jaskier can’t read his face. 

“I’ve suddenly become very nervous,” Jaskier says quickly. “Which is unusual, for me, but I’m—you—”

Geralt tilts his head, slides his hand down to where Jaskier’s toying with the laces of his pants. “Jask, we don’t have to—”

“I love you,” Jaskier blurts. “I just—I do. I _love_ you. And I’m afraid—”

Geralt gets off the bed.

“Hush,” he says as Jaskier starts to protest. He steps out of his pants, then puts his hands back on Jaskier’s hips. “Can I?”

Jaskier nods frantically, watching as Geralt undresses him. He puts one knee on either side of Jaskier’s and leans over him, sliding along his body until their cocks are pinned together by the weight of him. Jaskier wants to cry, maybe, or scream or something; he’s so _overwhelmed_ , Geralt is right _here,_ touching his face, frotting lazily against him as he breathes into his neck. Geralt pulls back, presses his forehead to Jaskier’s. 

—

“Tell me again,” he says. The edge of begging in his voice would embarrass him if he weren’t so far gone, so absolutely lost in Jaskier.

“Tell me for the first time,” Jaskier counters. He’s grinning, but there’s a tiny glint of fear in his eyes and Geralt hates how much time he’s wasted not loving this man with every fiber of his being.

“I love you,” he murmurs, dropping the lightest kiss on his lips. “I love you.” 

After all this time, all this fear, it’s the easiest, truest thing he’s ever said. 

Jaskier’s eyes go wide and starry and he smiles like he might never stop. Star anise tickles his nose again and he realizes with a jolt that this is how Jaskier smells when he’s—when—

“Does it turn you on?” he whispers. “When you perform?”

“What?”

“You—the way you smell right now, I’ve smelled it—after you sing, usually—”

Jaskier laughs and leans up and kisses him hard, winding his hands into his hair, not pulling away until they’re both panting.

“Only when you’re there,” he says. “I’m always singing to you.”

Geralt closes his eyes, a wave of emotion rendering him speechless. He catches Jaskier’s lip in his teeth, bites him, licks over the hurt. “Fuck me,” he whispers. “Now.”

Jaskier stiffens like he’s touched a live wire, hips bucking hard against Geralt’s.

“Melitele,” he breathes. “The way you talk. Do you want me to come before I’ve even gotten inside you?”

“No,” Geralt says, low and dark, almost a gasp against the shell of his ear. “When you _are_ inside me.”

Jaskier’s groan sounds like it’s been punched out of him, almost a sound of pain. He wraps his arms around Geralt and rolls them over, shifting back to kneel between his thighs. 

“Have you ever, um,” he starts. 

“Not with a man,” Geralt says. He sees the question flash across his face. “My fingers, sometimes. Yen’s. Toys. Never… anyone else.”

Jaskier lets out a long, shuddering breath. 

“Waiting for you, I guess,” Geralt says, trying not to think about how vulnerable he probably looks in this moment. 

Jaskier’s face does something complicated; he ducks his head and licks up the underside of Geralt’s cock. Geralt’s hips jerk up against him involuntarily; he makes a sound almost like a sob and grabs his hair. 

“Jask,” he rasps. Jaskier shakes his head, nuzzling against the base of his cock, sending hot and cold shivers through him. He presses his thighs apart gently, slowly, turning to mouth along the skin there, biting and kissing and stoking the coal of heat inside him brighter and brighter. He shifts again, lifting Geralt’s legs over his shoulders, pressing his thighs back against him. 

“Hold these for me,” he says with a tentative smile. Geralt wraps his hands under his knees and closes his eyes, wincing at how _exposed_ he feels. Jaskier shoves something under his hips, a blanket or a pillow or something, and then he’s gone completely, not touching Geralt at all, and then his weight settles back on the bed and his hand wraps around Geralt’s cock and then something warm and wet slips across Geralt’s hole and his eyes _slam_ open.

Jaskier is between his legs, oiled fingers teasing along the length of him, and his face is buried in Geralt’s ass. His tongue flicks across his rim, back and forth, the touch of it light and teasing and _maddening_ and Geralt _whimpers._ Jaskier lifts his head fast, alarmed, eyes wide.

“Is it—I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Don’t stop,” he whispers. “Please.”

Jaskier smiles slow, like a cat with a mouse. “You sweet boy,” he murmurs. “You darling, darling man.” 

The way his cock pulses at that slight praise doesn’t escape either of them. Jaskier leans down and mouths at the head of him, tongue dipping into his slit, and Geralt clutches the sheets so tightly he feels them rip. 

“So sensitive,” Jaskier breathes. “Gods, you—you have no idea—”

He brushes the tip of his thumb over Geralt’s hole, then the other, oil and spit making the slide of them feel like not enough, and then his tongue returns and presses past the ring of muscle and then Jaskier’s inside him, searching and curling and tasting, and Geralt is making sounds he’s never made before, moving in ways he’s never moved, thrusting back and down onto Jaskier as he tries to feel more, more, _more_. 

“All right, my love,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt realizes he’s been talking out loud, gods know for how long, saying _what_ , but then Jaskier slips a finger inside him slow and steady, up to the hilt, and licks around the base of it and Geralt forgets how to speak altogether. 

“I wonder,” Jaskier says, stroking inside of him, “do you think you could come like this? From this alone?”

Geralt whines, shoves himself harder onto Jaskier’s finger. 

“That’s a yes, then,” he murmurs to himself, and then he withdraws his finger just enough to slip a second in. Geralt can feel his throat vibrating, feel himself keening, but he can’t hear anything above the blood rushing in his ears. Yes, he could come like this, _will_ come like this, if Jaskier’s fingers keep curling inside him, brushing against a spot that sends lightning sparking from his balls to his cock up to coil somewhere deep inside him where it burns. Jaskier spreads his fingers apart and presses his tongue into Geralt between them and that’s it, he’s gone, his cock jerking as he comes all over himself with a hoarse cry. 

—

Jaskier stares down at Geralt’s heaving chest, glistening with his own spend, and has to catch his breath. His eyes are unfocused, golden and hazy with lust, and his hair is spread across the pillow in a halo. He looks, quite frankly, like an angel, and Jaskier could spend the rest of his life worshipping—

Geralt grabs him and pulls him forward hard, hooking his arms under his thighs and moving him until he’s sitting on his chest. He looks up at him.

“Hello, love,” Jaskier says gently. “How—”

Geralt sucks his cock into his mouth like his life depends on it, pulling Jaskier closer, sinking down as far as he can and pulling back, cheeks hollowed. His fingers dig into Jaskier’s back, his ass, urging him deeper, and he obliges. The tip of his cock hits the back of Geralt’s mouth and he makes a small sound in his chest and yanks him forward again, swallowing, and then his nose is pressed into Jaskier’s abdomen and his throat is full of Jaskier’s cock.

“Oh, gods, Geralt, I—you— _oh_ ,” Jaskier babbles. “Darling, that’s—it’s so good, I can’t—if you keep—”

He gives a sharp little whine as Geralt swallows again and then grabs his head, trying to hold him still.

“I would love nothing more than to spill down your throat right now,” he says, gasping for breath, “except to fuck you, and I can’t—two is a lot in one evening, and I’ve been drinking, and—”

Geralt pulls off of him with a pop, mouth shiny and flushed and trailing spit, and Jaskier almost caves and shoves his cock right back between his lips, but Geralt holds him still and looks up at him and says, “Then fuck me.”

Jaskier wastes no time, scrambles off him and finds the oil where he’s thrown it aside, coats his fingers and his cock and then slides two fingers back inside Geralt, pumping and scissoring, working him open. He’s so soft inside, so responsive; Jaskier can feel it every time he hits his prostate as he tightens and flutters around him. 

“One more?” he asks, withdrawing.

“No more,” Geralt says. “Your cock.”

He pushes three fingers into him, watches him writhe. “Fuck you,” he gasps. “I said—”

“Maybe later, my love,” Jaskier says, curling his fingers, feeling him spasm. “I just want to make sure—”

“Jaskier—”

“I just want to make sure,” he says, spreading them wide, “that it’s as good as it can possibly—”

“ _Bard,_ ” Geralt growls, voice ripping out of him like it hurts. “ _Please_.”

Jaskier stills, overwhelmed once more. Once he does this—once _this_ happens, they can’t go back. If Geralt regrets this in the morning, or in a month, or in ten years—once Jaskier has had him, has known what it’s like to love him, be loved _by_ him—if he changes his mind—

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Geralt murmurs. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

Jaskier looks down at him, twists his wrist a little and strokes along that spot. Geralt stiffens and groans and says it again. “Please, Jask. Just—please.”

Jaskier pulls his fingers out, wraps them around his aching prick. He shuffles forward, makes sure Geralt’s hips are still situated on the pillow, tucks his knees under Geralt’s thighs and pulls him closer. The head of his cock slides against him, catches on his rim, and Geralt makes a little rumbly sound of approval. 

“Just promise me,” Jaskier says desperately. “I know you can’t promise to love me forever, and I wouldn’t make you, but just promise me—gods, if—if you hate it, or I’m hurting you, or—if anything isn’t exactly what you want, just—just give me a chance to fix it, all right?”

He leans forward, puts a hand next to Geralt’s head, and guides himself inside. There’s a feeling of resistance, a moment of terror, and then he slips past the ring of muscle with a gasp and a muttered curse. 

Geralt pulls at him, cupping his ass, trying to get him deeper. 

“Slowly, love,” Jaskier says. “Slowly.”

He dips his head to kiss him, pressing into him as he does, and after what feels like an eternity he bottoms out. 

“Oh,” he breathes, overcome by the feeling. “Oh, Geralt, I’m—I’m inside you.”

“Yes,” Geralt whispers. 

“Is it—are you—”

“Good,” Geralt says. “It’s good.”

Jaskier brings his other hand up, brushes Geralt’s hair out of his face and kisses him again. 

“Can I—”

“I wish you would,” Geralt says with a grin. 

Jaskier moves. Slowly at first, nervously, but Geralt sighs and gasps and clutches at him, urging him on.

“It’s—gods, Geralt, you feel—”

“Come _on_ , Jask,” Geralt breathes. “Fuck me, fill me, make me yours—”

Jaskier drops his head onto Geralt’s chest and groans, low in his throat, and thrusts into him hard.

“That’s it, bard,” Geralt says. “That’s it, yes, _gods—_ ”

Jaskier lifts his head to kiss him, then slams into him again and again, deeper each time. Heat builds in his gut, pooling and sizzling; his breath comes in short, sharp bursts as he winds his hands into Geralt’s hair and pulls. Geralt whines, high and stuttered like he’s forcing it out of him. Jaskier knows he won’t last much longer, and he wants to make Geralt come on his cock at _least_ once, so he shifts and plants a foot on the bed and pulls back, thrusting hesitantly at different angles until he finds the one that makes Geralt slam his head back against the pillow with a yelp. He does it again and again, watching Geralt wind tighter and tighter, bucking underneath him, and then he leans down and bites his nipple at the same time he wraps a hand around his cock and strips it in time with his thrusts and it only takes once, twice more before Geralt shudders and comes hard, wailing, clenching around Jaskier so tight he can see stars and Jaskier’s still fucking him, erratic and frantic as he loses control, and then he tries to stifle himself by sinking his teeth into Jaskier’s shoulder and Jaskier sobs, “Geralt, oh, _oh—_ ” and snaps his hips again and again and then he’s coming, emptying himself into Geralt in excruciating pulses as he cries out over and over, yes, yes, _yes, yes._

—

Jaskier collapses onto Geralt, mouthing dizzily at his collarbone, trying to catch his breath. Geralt strokes his hair, his back, his trembling sides. He presses his nose into his hair and breathes him in. 

After a few minutes Jaskier lifts his head, props his chin on Geralt’s chest to look at him.

“Three words or less,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“I love you,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier’s cheeks go pink; he rolls off of Geralt and onto his side.

“I’ll—we should—”

He gets up off the bed and finds a cloth, brings it and a bucket of water over to the bed. “It’s been by the fire,” he says. “It should be warm enough—”

He cleans Geralt off gently, tenderly, and Geralt can’t help but think about all the other times he’s done this. Blood, guts, gore. No matter what, it’s always been like this, soft and caring, and he can’t believe he’s never seen it. 

“All this time,” he says quietly. Jaskier looks up, finished with his own cleaning. 

“Hm?”

“You loved me,” Geralt says. “All this time.”

Jaskier gets back onto the bed, presses himself against Geralt’s side and hooks a leg over his. Geralt snakes an arm under his neck and holds him, fingers trailing lightly up and down his back. 

“I did,” Jaskier says. “I do.”

Geralt shakes his head. 

“I’ll keep saying it as long as I have to,” Jaskier says. “Until you believe it.”

“I believe it,” Geralt says. “I just don’t deserve it.”

“Fuck off,” Jaskier says. “Truly, fuck off.”

Geralt sighs.

“It’s not about _deserve_ , anyway,” Jaskier says. “It’s love.”

“It’s love,” Geralt murmurs. Somehow, despite everything, it is. It seeps over him like honey, filling the cracks in his heart. Jaskier loves him; he loves Jaskier. Anything and everything else in the world doesn’t matter. 

“This maybe is not the time,” Jaskier says. “But Triss and I made a little wager.”

“Oh?”

Jaskier puts his hand on Geralt’s chest, turns it so Geralt can see a tiny glowing mark on his wrist.

“She told me you loved me, I told her that was bullshit, and she told me, basically, that she was so confident she was right that she’d put her magic on the line, and, um, the long and short of it is that I am now… mmm. Not quite immortal, but…”

Geralt looks at him, feels his heart beat slow and steady.

“You’re stuck with me for a long time,” Jaskier says. “So I hope you meant it when you said _as long as you want_. Because I want, you know, forever. Or as close to it as I have now, which, again, is… a very long time.”

Warmth curls in Geralt’s chest, spreads like ink in water. He realizes he’s smiling.

“Forever,” he says. He hooks a finger under Jaskier’s chin, lifts his face for a kiss. “As close to it as we can get.”

Jaskier grins, then yawns directly into Geralt’s mouth.

“Clearly I need to go to sleep,” he says. “But when I wake up I expect to find myself tenderly cradled in the arms of the man I love, and then I expect to be ravished by him.”

Geralt snorts, then kisses the top of his head. “I’ll be here, Jask. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, here we are at the end of this fic and possibly the end of all things. i hope you enjoyed it, please say nice things if you did, i hope you are all safe and well and doing things that make you happy tonight. geraskier forever, switch jaskier forever, buff jaskier rights, et cetera. goodbye <3


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